by Kyla Stone
“It’s a gutsy risk,” Cleo countered. “And one they won’t expect. With any luck, we won’t have to engage the guards outside at all.”
They exited the skybridge and cleared the alcove. There were no guards waiting for them. The walls and floor were white marble swirled with gray. A plush, blood-red carpet ran along the length of the corridor. Gabriel gestured for the others to follow. “I don’t believe in luck.”
She scowled, the scarred side of her face shiny and wrinkled. “Me neither.”
And yet, at least for the moment, it seemed luck was on their side. They didn’t run into any interference as they made their way down the corridor, passing numerous wooden doors leading to massive conference rooms, to the stairs.
Her finger to her lips, Cleo gingerly touched a frosted glass door labeled ‘lobby.’ The door slid open with the faintest hiss, soft as an expelled breath.
The lobby ceiling stretched a full thirty stories above them. Each hotel suite opened onto a five-foot-wide walkway lined with a three-foot brass railing. Instead of baluster posts, the railing was constructed of solid brass panels embossed with artistic, swirling shapes. The railing was broken up every few dozen yards by thick marble pillars that held up the balcony above it. The walkway began on the left side of the enormous circular lobby and spiraled gently upward like a single apple peel.
The lobby itself glimmered with polished floors, sleekly curved loungers the same garnet-red as the carpet, and a grand, three-story fountain at the center of the atrium. Three glass revolving doors marked the entrance, opposite the concierge and check-in desks. Six elevators with brass-overlaid doors were located perpendicular to the entrance.
“You sure they’re working?” Gabriel asked in a strained whisper. “An elevator takes an awful lot of electricity.”
Cleo nodded. “They use it to transport scavenged goods they bring in through the parking garage.”
He glanced at the guards patrolling outside the glass revolving doors. A dozen or so remained. Every guard faced the street, expecting any threat to come from the outside.
Several large, armored drones glided past. “What about them?”
“They’re programmed for exterior protective measures only,” Li Jun whispered. “Deadly machines, but dumb as a box of rocks. These are fifth gen. They were discussing adding AI features to the next—”
“Li Jun,” Willow hissed. “Please stop talking.”
Gabriel felt the first jolt of hope. Maybe they would actually make it. “I’ll stay and provide cover. You lead them to the elevators.”
“I’ll stay, too,” Micah said.
He turned to his brother. “Are you sure?”
Micah didn’t bother to respond. He crouched behind the closest marble pillar, hiding as much of his body as possible. He adjusted his rifle butt against his shoulder and rested the muzzle on the top rail.
“If we crawl, the railing will block us from sight,” Willow said.
Silas dropped to the floor first. “We’re not serving cake and tea here, people. Move.”
“Can you crawl?” Gabriel asked Finn.
“I can do anything right now,” Finn said with a grimace. “Tomorrow’s another story.”
“We’re fine,” said Celeste, though she winced as Willow lowered her to the floor.
“We’re going to do this.” Gabriel’s throat thickened with sudden emotion. He pushed it away. This wasn’t the time. “We’re going to get out of here. All of us.”
Amelia met his gaze, her ice blue eyes striking all the way to the core of him. He saw fear, but also an unfaltering, unflinching resolve. “We’ll see you on the other side.”
The others dropped to their hands and knees. They crept quietly down the gently descending walkway, Cleo and Li Jun leading them, Benjie between Willow and Finn, Amelia helping Celeste, and Silas and Horne taking up the rear.
Gabriel took cover behind the closest pillar. His pulse thudded against his throat. His blood rushed in his ears. He winced at every muffled sound, the bump of a shoulder against the railing, the scrape of a boot scuffing the floor.
The group reached the lobby. There were forty-five wide-open yards between them and the elevators. So much empty space to cross with so little cover.
“How’s it look?” Cleo said into his comm. The sound was loud and clear in his right ear.
“It’s clear. You’re a go.”
Cleo and Li Jun stepped into the lobby, crouching and scanning either side before they crept forward. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run if it all went sideways.
He glanced at the guards outside again. One of them coughed into his mask. Another scratched his butt. Their posture was stiff but not on edge. They hadn’t noticed anything yet.
His eye snagged on movement. A giant, metallic red mirror hung on the wall behind the concierge desk at the rear of the lobby. Through the mirror, he glimpsed a sleek black desk with a computer interface and several rolling office chairs. A shadow fluttered in the reflection.
He peered through his scope, adjusted it, and looked again. Three dark figures bristling with weapons crept around the concierge desk.
His heart stopped. Everything else faded away. He aimed his rifle, his gaze narrowing, ready to obliterate the bastards from the face of the earth.
The angle wasn’t right. Though he could see them in the mirror, they were protected by the massive marble desk. He could shoot through wood, but not dense, two-foot-thick stone.
He bit back a curse, enraged by his own helplessness. He caught Micah’s attention and pointed silently. Micah’s eyes widened in horror.
Amelia was down there. Willow and Benjie and Finn. Everyone and everything left in this ruined world that either of them cared about.
The group had made it to the fountain, but they were crouching on the opposite side, hiding from any guard who might glance through the glass doors. They were completely exposed to the enemies hunting them from behind.
“Hostiles to your six!” he said into his comm. “I’ll cover you. Run!”
As soon as he fired, it would alert the guards outside. It couldn’t be helped now. He tucked the stock to his shoulder, pressed his cheek down, and slammed out a flurry of shots at the concierge desk. The Pyros ducked, seeking cover.
His group fled, racing for the bank of elevators. They were thirty feet away when one of the hostiles behind the desk shot at them. The bullet struck the metal doors of the elevator, bounced off, and nailed a holo port, splintering the casing and sending it skittering across the floor.
The elevator doors opened with a ding. A thick, burly Pyro strode out, a pulse gun in each hand.
They were trapped.
“Oh, hell,” Willow whispered in his ear.
Gabriel didn’t think. He just moved. He darted from the safety of the column and dropped into position. He was exposing himself above the railing, but he had to make the shot. He fired a short, controlled burst.
The burly Pyro crumpled, a single bead of blood dripping down his forehead.
The air exploded in gunfire.
One of the hostiles leapt out from behind the concierge desk. He brought his sub-machine gun around with a precise sweep, emptying the clip, gouging chunks of marble from the walls and shattering a floor-to-ceiling window, striking one of his own men outside.
Before the sweep could reach his actual targets, Micah brought him down, shooting him in the chest.
A second man turned and returned fire at Micah and Gabriel, a spray of bullets whizzing past and puncturing the wall behind them. They flung themselves behind the marble pillars.
Cleo swore loudly. “Run!”
The group ran. They crouched, covering their heads as bullets tore through the air above them.
Gabriel darted out and unleashed a storm of bullets on the hostile still shooting up at them. The man tried to dive for cover, but it was too late. Micah nailed him with a second volley. He went down and didn’t move.
Gabriel aimed at the concierge de
sk. A burst of slugs smashed into the mirror, red metallic glass raining down on the remaining hostile’s head.
The hostile headed for the edge of the desk, giving Gabriel his opening. He fired in quick, three-shot bursts. The Pyro slumped across the computer console.
“Gabriel!” Micah cried. The guards had surged inside, already shooting.
“We’ve got it,” Silas said into his comm. He and Willow retreated. They took positions behind the marble fountain, shooting at the guards while the rest fled for the elevators.
Willow shot two in the head, dropping them where they stood. Silas took out another one just as his rifle swiveled toward the elevators.
Gabriel spun and hid behind the pillar, his back pressed against the cold stone. He unclipped his second—and last—magazine from his belt, jammed it in, and slammed out a dozen shots. Spent cartridges dropped to the plush carpet.
The high ground gave him an enormous advantage. But would it be enough? Five guards flooded through the revolving doors. Gabriel picked off four of them in a barrage of bullets.
The fifth one got off a shot, his pulse gun aimed at Silas. The marble head of the fountain’s mermaid statue exploded in a crackle of blue, sizzling energy.
Silas ducked, swearing profusely. He shook off the shards and dust, unhurt. “Damn, that thing has power.”
Micah leveled his rifle and shot the fifth guard in the shoulder. The man staggered but didn’t go down. He lifted his weapon, aiming shakily for the third-floor balcony. The pulsed plasma ripped into the railing several feet away, tearing it from its moorings and gashing a jagged hole in the ramp floor.
Micah pulled the trigger again. This time, the man went down and didn’t get up.
Amelia made it to the elevator, Cleo right behind her. Cleo swiped her SmartFlex over the brass-plated ID-scanner. The doors slid open. Two bullets struck the wall above the elevators. The screen displaying the floor numbers hissed and went black.
Not Amelia. He couldn’t let them hurt Amelia.
Gabriel spun and leaned out over the railing, heedless of his own safety.
“Gabriel!” Micah hissed.
Gabriel ignored him. He shot two more guards. A third one saw him and opened fire with his pulse gun. The ball of blue flame tore a massive chunk out of the marble pillar inches to his right. The pillar cracked and groaned.
He fired back, but his rifle only clicked. He was out of ammo.
“Get down!” Silas shouted. Gabriel hit the deck, his hands over his head as a second burst smashed into the wall behind him, blasting a several-foot crater clear into the suite.
Swirling white dust choked his throat. His heart pounded so loud in his ears, he could barely hear. There was another controlled blast of gunfire.
“Silas got him,” Willow said into his comm. “We’re going while we have the chance. Get down here!”
“Don’t wait for us!” he said.
Micah dropped his gun, his hands shaking. His face was pale, his wavy hair damp against his forehead, his upper lip beaded with sweat. His glasses slid-halfway down his nose. “I’m out, too.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other, breathing heavily, grateful to be alive. Finally, Gabriel risked a peek over the railing. The elevator doors were closed. Everyone, including Silas and Willow, had made it inside. “You did good. We all did.”
The lobby was strewn with bodies, spent bullets, broken glass, and chunks of marble, granite, and crumbled drywall. Several drones buzzed angrily outside the stuck revolving doors which were jammed with fallen guards. Their gun turrets swiveled menacingly, but the drones didn’t attempt entry.
A bit of luck, but he would take it. They’d all be dead otherwise.
“We’ve got to get out of here before they send reinforcements,” Gabriel whispered urgently.
Micah nodded and jammed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Right behind you.”
A sound came from below them. Gabriel froze.
“Help me!” someone cried.
Gabriel put his finger to his lips and risked another look over the railing. Horne knelt almost directly below them in the ruined lobby. He faced their direction, but he wasn’t looking at them.
He was slumped on his knees, his hands uplifted beseechingly as he stared at the man in front of him, aghast. The man stood with his back to Gabriel and Micah. He wore a ripped black trench coat. Sykes.
Horne must have remained behind the fountain, too shell-shocked to flee, the others forced to leave him behind. Now, he blubbered and hiccuped, begging for mercy, snot bubbling from his flared nostrils, tears wetting his face. He didn’t even notice the two Pyros striding up behind him. He was caught like a fish on a hook.
“Here piggy, piggy,” Sykes said with a cruel, melodious laugh. He held a long, electrified blade with a serrated curve at the end in his left, unhurt hand. “Look what you’ve done to our home. I knew we should have just lined you up and shot you. But now we can improvise, can’t we? I’ve been waiting to gut you since the day I first laid eyes on you, you filthy elitist scum.”
Sykes was going to kill Horne. And it was going to be excruciatingly painful.
Beside him, Micah stiffened. Gabriel could almost see the thoughts churning in his brother’s brain. His brother, the compassionate, merciful one.
“Micah—” Gabriel whispered. “We’ve already lost people. Nadira. Jericho. We should be smart. We need to think of the rest of the group—”
Micah turned to him, his eyes blazing. “I know. But it’s who I am. It’s who we are. It has to be. You go. Save yourself. Don’t try to talk me out of it—”
“Micah.”
“What?” he hissed.
“I’m coming with you.”
Micah narrowed his eyes. “What?”
He grimaced, resigned to his fate. “Tyler Horne is trash. He isn’t worth saving and never will be. But you’re stubborn as an ass. I know you, and I know you’re going, with or without me. Besides, I have to kill Sykes. He’ll hunt us into the sewers if I don’t.”
He took a breath, cramming everything he wanted to say into a few desperate sentences in a few desperate seconds. All the things he could never say but felt in the very marrow of his bones burned through him. You’re my brother, my foundation and my compass. I love you and I would die without you. “I can never be like you, no matter how much I might want to be. But I won’t let you sacrifice your life for him. We do this together.”
Micah stared at him, a dozen emotions passing across his face—shock, relief, gratefulness, respect. He grabbed Gabriel’s hand. “Say the words.”
Gabriel smiled grimly. “Just us.”
Micah said, “Always.”
29
Willow
The sewers were as dark and dank and awful as Willow had imagined. The concrete tunnel walls were rough and looked a thousand years old.
Finn clutched his shoulder and took in his surroundings. What little blood remained drained from his face. “This must be where fun goes to die.”
She flicked on the small flashlight attached to the top of the flamethrower. Silas flipped on the light on his rifle scope. Cleo had finagled night vision goggles for both herself and Li Jun but no one else. Willow gritted her teeth. It figured.
“We should wait for Gabriel and Micah,” Amelia said, her voice trembling in the dark. Their comms didn’t work down here. They’d lost contact ten minutes ago.
“No way, sweetheart.” Cleo said sweetheart like it was something foul. “They’re covering us so we can get away. That’s what we intend to do. Now move your skinny ass.”
They made their way carefully along the tunnel, sloshing through six inches of oily, stagnant water. Amelia helped Celeste now, so that Willow’s hands were free to use the flamethrower if—when—they came across more killer rats.
Willow shuddered. She kept seeing shadowy shapes in the water, imagining furred, bulging bodies slithering toward her. She half-expected t
o step on something squishy and disgusting.
The air was stale and stank of rotten eggs. Every sound was amplified, every splashing footstep, every panicked breath. Water drip, drip, dripped from the walls and ceiling.
“How long are we trapped in this hellhole?” Silas asked, grimacing.
“Approximately two miles,” Li Jun said from the rear. “We’ll come out behind Atlantic Station mall. From there, it’s less than six hundred meters to the AirRail station. We’ll take that to our rendezvous point, where our people will be waiting for us.”
“Easy peasy,” Benjie said, his words belying his terrified expression. He was pale and shivery, his eyes enormous in the dim light.
Willow squeezed his hand. “You got it.”
“We’re knights on a quest to rescue a princess, Sir Benjie,” Finn whispered. “If we’re clever and brave, we’ll defeat the nasty dragon lord and win the hand of the lady.”
“Who’s the princess?” Benjie whispered back.
Finn wrinkled his brow and flashed Willow a crooked grin, only half-wincing. “Can you imagine your sister as a helpless princess all trussed up in pink ribbons and tassels?”
Benjie giggled.
Willow appreciated Finn’s efforts. He was distracting Benjie, making them heroes in a fantastical story to inspire Benjie’s bravery. She hefted her flamethrower, forcing lightness into her voice for her brother’s sake. “Some princesses prefer guns. And kicking ass and taking names.”
“Ribbons and tassels are cool, too,” Celeste said from behind them.
Benjie grinned, some of the tension draining from his small face. “Whatever floats your boat, right, Mister Finn?”
“Exactly, Sir Benjie,” Finn said.
They kept walking. Every ping, splash, and thud sent adrenaline jolting through her body. The hairs on her neck and arms stood on end like they were electrified.
A sound came from behind them. A faint, soft scraping. She twisted, peering into the darkness, expecting hostile enemies or rats or some monstrous form rearing up out of hell to devour them. But there was nothing.